Beloved,
let us turn our hearts today to the scene at Golgotha.
Three crosses stand on a hill—three condemned men, three dying breaths, three stories that touch eternity.
We know one of them: our Lord Jesus Christ.
But on His right and on His left hang two men the Gospels call lēstai—a Greek word often translated “thieves.”
But in those days, Rome did not crucify pickpockets.
Rome crucified rebels.
Rome crucified those who dared resist its empire.
Rome crucified men caught up in the desperate struggle for the soul of Israel.
So picture these two men not as petty criminals, but as men who believed they were fighting for righteousness, for their people, for freedom. They had shed blood for their nation. They had gambled their lives on the hope that violence could redeem Israel.
And now, at the very end, they look at Jesus—the One some called “Messiah,” the One some believed would restore the kingdom of David—and what do they see?
They see a man who never raised a sword.
A man who never spilled Roman blood.
A man who did not fight the way they fought.
And suddenly, a cruel irony: He hangs on a cross beside them, under the same Roman charge.
So they speak—not from humor, not from malice, but from heartbreak:
“Are You not the Messiah? Save Yourself—and us!”
Their words are not insults.
They are accusations of disappointed hope.
“Why didn’t You fight? Why didn’t You act? Why didn’t You become the kind of Messiah we expected You to be?”
My friends, have we not all spoken like this at times?
Have we not all looked at God and cried, “Lord, why didn’t You save me the way I imagined? Why didn’t You do what I hoped You would do?”
The cross has a way of exposing all our expectations.
Now something extraordinary happens—perhaps the most astonishing transformation in the New Testament.
One of the men—one of the rebels—begins to see differently.
He hears Jesus say, “Father, forgive them.”
He sees Jesus refusing hatred even as hatred crushes Him.
He sees innocence where he expected weakness.
He sees glory where he expected defeat.
And slowly, painfully, a truth dawns inside him:
“My way of saving the world was wrong.”
“My righteousness was too small.”
“This man is innocent… and I am not.”
Beloved, that is the beginning of every true conversion.
So the second thief turns, with a courage born of brokenness, and says:
“We are receiving what we deserve…
but this man has done nothing wrong.”
He lays down all self-righteousness.
He lets go of all the old ideas of salvation.
He lets go of pride.
He lets go of ideology.
He lets go of the sword.
And then—using the last breath he has—
he makes one of the greatest confessions in all Scripture:
“Jesus, remember me when You come into Your kingdom.”
Do you hear what he is saying?
Not, “Save me from Rome.”
Not, “Save me from this cross.”
But, “Lord, I believe Your kingdom is real even when You are dying.”
That is faith.
Faith not in power, but in love.
Faith not in triumph, but in self-giving.
Faith not in a conquering warrior, but in a suffering Savior.
And Jesus turns to him—not as a man in agony, but as a King upon His throne—and says:
“Truly I tell you, today you will be with Me in Paradise.”
Why such a promise for such a man?
Because in that moment, the thief did what few have ever done:
He saw the glory of God in a crucified Christ.
He recognized kingship in wounds.
He surrendered everything he believed to embrace everything God is.
He entered the Kingdom through the narrowest door—
a door so narrow it was shaped like a cross.
Beloved, what does this mean for us?
It means that no one is too far gone.
It means that no worldview is beyond redemption.
It means that God meets us even when our righteousness collapses.
It means that the door to Paradise is open to anyone who looks at Jesus and says,
“Lord, I see who You truly are.”
The thief had nothing left to offer—no deeds, no victories, no arguments—just a broken heart and a simple plea:
“Remember me.”
And Jesus did.
He always does.
May we, too, look upon the crucified Christ and see not defeat but love.
Not weakness but divine strength.
Not a failed liberator but the King who saves the world.
Amen.